


The Movie on Your Eyelids

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform, Written in 2010, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realizing how rare is to see Dean this unmasked and bared, Castiel feels something inside him pulsate with jealousy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Movie on Your Eyelids

The air around him barely shifts, hardly quivers as he moves out of the darkest corner of the room and steps forward, still hidden by shadows, or maybe followed by them. He’s only occasionally partially illuminated by the rainbow colours of the flashing television screen. Unheard. Unseen. Unexpected.

The brothers sit on the metallic camp-bed by the window, leaning and reclining against each other, half awake and in part already gone, staring almost blindly at the muted TV in front of them. Both beaten up, scratched and bruised anew, exhausted and emotionally drained, but both alive and breathing. Still. Yet.

There’s a white bandage on Dean’s forearm, tainted with a few smears of dry blood that has soaked through, and an uncountable amount of bruises and scratches that cover his face and arms, and spots of paler skin that Castiel’s eyes can’t wander over. Sam’s body is equally scratched and bruised, and there’s a streak of sticking-plaster that keeps together the line of his eyebrow.

Another bed stands across from them, even more rotten than the one they’re huddled on, but that one is reserved for their means of battle – weapons of all kinds, for all species of enemies – guns, shotguns, Bowie knives, daggers, pocket knives, wooden stakes, cans of salt, flasks of holy water, ropes, sets of silver bullets, crossbows.... Cleaned and polished. Checked and repaired, or modified; perfectly, dreadfully prepared for war.

Yawning, Dean scratches at the thin slash on his temple, leaving a ruby stain in the shape of his fingers that disappears in his hair, and then leans on Sam, resting his chin on his folded arms, propped up on Sam’s back and shoulder. His eyes drift closed, but he forces them open again a few times, stubbornly fighting the drowsiness that settles upon them, and basically the whole night, as the raindrops bounce on the windowpane in a soft, soothing rhythm that sounds nearly like a lullaby. A song of Nature.

“Stupid commercials,” Sam mumbles as he shifts in Dean’s lap and fluffs the pillow, which is resting on Dean’s thigh, under his head better. “They’re like... endless. Wake me up if I fall asleep before the movie even starts.”

Dean yawns again, “I was just about to ask you the same.”

“Hah.” Sam’s laughter is something between an amused chuckle and a long weary sigh.

Dean shakes his head and draws a breath. “Screw this... it’s not like we haven’t seen it twenty-five times already,” he deduces.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is quiet now; address and question at the same time.

Dean’s eyes remain settled on the TV screen though, and he only hums sleepily. “Hmm?”

“Dean.” This time there’s a palpable touch of pleading in Sam’s tone, and he turns onto his back, looking up at Dean.

Suddenly losing the support underneath his head, Dean leans against the papered wall behind his back, and glances down to finally see what Sam wants; not talking, definitely not talking. Not in words anyway as the sparkles in Sam’s eyes indicate.

Castiel figures there’s something not entirely right, maybe even possibly wrong, with the picture in front of his eyes. He might not have read every book of the world ever written, but he knows that the way these two are sitting, lying, is not due the lack of space, but due the need for proximity. They could hardly sit any closer, but it apparently still wouldn’t be enough.

During his time Castiel has seen many looks of love; hundreds of looks that led men to perdition, that broke characters, friendships and pacts. Tons that destroyed lives, countries and civilizations. But only a few times were the looks so complete – so full of love, understanding, and longing, of accepting the one person in front of them as whole, without exceptions, with all his faults, determined and pleading to be allowed to take and give everything that’s in their power and heart.

The scholarly men who, since time immemorial have been convinced that they are the ones to say what Father thinks and considers is right, would call it sodomy, a sin to pay for, but Castiel thinks that, with the Winchester brothers, it’s more like a miracle. Both bent and broken, shattered to little pieces and put together; provisionally just for a while, a few blessed moments, tainted with the darkest obscurity, and still able to love. Even if it’s maybe not the right person. There is more, yes, but every step forward they take, every lingering look and touch is underlined with the simplest and most complicated emotion. Love.

Silently, but obviously loud enough, Sam reaches out, slipping his hand through Dean’s short hair and caressing the dark blonde strands for a moment, before he splays his long fingers at the nape of Dean’s neck and pushes his head urgently lower. Dean hesitates just a for moment, one second or two, three at the most, and then he presses his lips upon Sam’s slightly parted ones, sighing quietly and closing his eyes with that first, briefest contact. Sam’s eyes stay open, watching, with almost the same fascination as Castiel himself, the entire palette of emotions altering Dean’s face; from reluctance to acceptance, and from a spontaneous reaction to Sam’s request, to open want.

Realizing how rare is to see Dean this unmasked and bared, Castiel feels something inside him pulsate with jealousy, and a fleeting feeling that he should be the one Dean trusts so fully. It was he who’d pulled Dean from the excruciating pain of Hell, and whose imprint was tattooed on his shoulder. It was he who’d fought Alastair and his minions to liberate the righteous man before it was too late, even though it was far too late, and who’d picked up the bloody shreds that didn’t resemble a living creature in the least. He who’d helped to compound them into something that used to be a son, a brother, a soldier, and a necessary weapon in the battle that was just about to begin.

As the tip of his tongue dips in between Dean’s lips, opening them further and stroking Dean’s, Sam’s eyes slide from Dean’s face and then, unmistakably, settle upon Castiel’s startled and wide ones; like he knows, knew all the time that they weren’t alone. He measures the angel intently, with a sinful look of teasing and superiority, and pure, unconcealed lust for everything the lips of his brother have to offer. He narrows his eyes, generally hazel, but now just as dark as the starless sky outside, staring at Castiel through the thin slit, menacingly, speaking louder than a stamp of ownership would, that Dean is Sam’s, and his only, and that he doesn’t share. Not with hell, and decidedly not with heaven.

A moment later Sam gets up onto his knees and pushes Dean down onto the bed gently with a slow, wholly unhurried pace, pinning Dean's arms to the mattress above his head and entwining their fingers. His body follows, movements fluid like liquid as he blankets Dean's body, exposing his vulnerability, yet shielding him from Castiel's stunned look and questioning eyes that, against Castiel's free will, long to see more and deeper, beyond what he's being shown. Their lips never withdraw for more than an inch, gliding and slipping against each other, hungry and offering, teeth nipping and tugging, tongues sliding in and out, licking, tasting. Neither of them looks tired anymore.

Castiel's absolutely drawn to it, to these two and the energy that flows around them, literally sparkling. He regards the scene with the same fascination humanity watch a fatal car crash. Knowing they should look away, close their eyes, because the picture ahead isn't meant for them, and can only hurt, but they're still staring, frozen in space and time, and the gruesomeness of the moment. The feathers of his wings, invisible but palpable and heavy, tremble like they are urging him to go, to shake them and leave, but he stands where he is, unmoving, forgetting to breathe, or even to fake breathing, absolutely captured.

When Sam nudges his knee in between Dean's thighs, causing his whole body to arch off the bed and into Sam's touch, seeking even more contact and friction, and a pained moan, that is in fact his brother's name, breaks free from Dean's lips, Castiel feels like he's about to step out of his borrowed skin. A skin that isn’t safe or comfortable anymore; stretched and hot, it prickles like it doesn't belong, that it can't all of a sudden contain his entire entity.

Releasing Dean’s hands, which stay unmoving just where he pressed them to the bed a moment ago, Sam slides his palms down Dean’s arms and lower, faithfully copying the swell of his chest and the outline of his ribs, until his fingers disappear underneath Dean’s T-shirt and behind his back. He draws Dean closer with this movement, surprisingly even nearer, and Dean’s fingers move to dig into Sam’s shoulders, keeping him just where he is. His leg slides slowly, almost teasingly, alongside Sam’s and... Castiel blinks. It’s an absolutely unwanted, unexpected, and instinct driven action that disturbs, and then completely shatters, the image in front of his eyes, and he stumbles back a step as the reality crashes into him full force, like a little earthquake. He withdraws back into the shadow of the room, from which he wishes he’d never loomed, and then, completely unobserved this time, he vanishes. He leaves them to their sin and lust, ignoring the moans and desperate pleas that trail after him like the stench of sulphur, and that sound like the boys were fighting with each other, together against the thing in between them, as though they don’t actually want it, but can’t really help themselves, or overcome the power that vibrates through their veins.

Castiel walks through the rainy, dark night with the tableau of what he had witnessed carved behind his eyelids and etched on his skin like a bad sign. He wishes there was a way to cleanse the act from his memory, and yet keep it there forever. He hopes that he’ll never forget the look of pure love reflected in the boys’ eyes. He’s sure that that is something worth fighting both hell and heaven for.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted here: http://jojothecr.livejournal.com/229149.html#cutid1


End file.
